


We'll Make Money Selling Your Hair

by villaingotyourcat



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Eve's Hair, F/F, One Shot, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25214446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villaingotyourcat/pseuds/villaingotyourcat
Summary: You always break in on Saturdays.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 16
Kudos: 165





	We'll Make Money Selling Your Hair

You always break in on Saturdays.

You suppose it’s unfair to call it “breaking in” if there’s a pattern to it. It had felt more like breaking in when you had first tracked down her new apartment and picked her lock; now, she leaves her door unlocked on Saturday mornings, a ritual that makes your stomach both flutter and churn. It’s an acknowledgement that whenever you set foot in her home, it’s happening on her terms. The thought bothers you tremendously. You are unpredictable, untraceable, a force of nature. You are simply giving her a false sense of security, luring her in only to turn the tide when she least expects it.

This is what you tell yourself as you find her door unlocked for the fifth Saturday in a row. The fluttering returns as you twist the knob gently. You think of her, bleary-eyed in her slippers, stopping to turn the lock in anticipation of you. The image warms you, and the fluttering returns with a renewed intensity. Whatever. International assassins don’t get butterflies while breaking into the homes of targets. 

The only redeeming qualities of Eve’s shitty apartment are its east-facing windows. It’s a rare, sunny morning in London, and the light pours through the windows unhindered. It makes the house glow with more life than these walls have seen in years, makes the peeling paint and sparse furniture look quaint rather than bleak. It almost makes up for the sound of the neighbors shouting upstairs. Almost. 

You slip into the bedroom and find the comforter and sheets crumpled on the floor, and you wonder if Eve’s having nightmares again. She’d told you in a moment of vulnerability that she still dreams of Raymond, that she spends some nights chopping at his body over and over to the sound of your voice as his blood flows endlessly until she wakes, sputtering and sore. You wanted to ask if she ever enjoys the dream, if she ever feels a rush as the life drains from his eyes, but the question was out of place with Eve’s body tucked tightly against her own. Ideally, she’d dream of you naked, kissing down her sternum biting her collarbones, but a part of you wonders if this dream gives her a similar thrill.

“Shit,” Eve hisses, and you turn your attention to the bathroom.

The door is propped open, and you hear the distinct sound of Eve’s voice, sharp and irritated. You don’t have to look to know that she’s got her hair caught in the faucet again, but you nudge the door open anyway. The tiny bathroom is filled with steam and Eve’s pear scented shampoo, the mirror foggy and useless. The counter is littered with brightly colored bottles and tubes, like jewels on a crown, with Eve in the center, head turned downward with all her hair spilling out of the sink.

When you reach forward and begin to untangle her curl from the faucet, she doesn’t start, even though you know your entrance was silent. She stops thrashing and lets you unwind the strands, but her breathing is too controlled to be natural. You wonder if she’s counting in her head. You heard that counting calms people down, but you’ve never been good in math so you wouldn’t know. 

Once she’s free, she lifts her head quickly and stray droplets fly from her unruly hair, splattering across your face and all over the foggy mirror, exposing little streaks as they trickle downward. She doesn’t thank you, just looks at you, an acknowledgement rather than a response. It’s not until her head is back under the faucet, fingers working vigorously at her scalp, that you speak.

“You could do that in the shower,” you say, shoving her bottles and tubes aside to sit on the counter beside her.

Her voice is muted by the rushing water, the awkward angle. “There’s not enough room for all my products in the shower.”

She has a point, you think, as you glance at the tiny shower. You’ve seen coffins with more space.

“What do all of these do?” you ask.

“I’ve already told you,” she says, you can hear the smile in her voice.

“Tell me again.”

There’s a pause, and you think she’s analyzing you again. She has theories and fantasies of you, a delicious combination that both intrigues and amuses you. You discovered the overlap under her body last Saturday, your hands bound by the thick stockings she wears in the winter, as she climbed down your body, turning theory into law with every brush of her lips against your skin. You think, sometimes, that you like the way she sees you more than you like yourself.

“Shampoo, conditioner, a hair mask, argan oil, coconut oil, shea butter, another conditioner, some kind of serum that’s supposed to make my hair shiny, styling cream, mousse, hair spray, and if I was in a hurry, the dry shampoo too.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

She hums. “Does it make you all hot when my hair gets tangled in the faucet?”

“Only when I’m the one that gets to untangle it.”

“I knew there was a reason you always show up on wash day.”

You knew she was aware of your pattern, but it’s different to hear her talk about it so casually, like you’re the mailman or the straight couple with their headboard against her bedroom wall. Your throat is tight, and you swallow hard.

“I show up whenever I want,” you say, but there’s an edge to your voice that sounds a little too defensive for your taste.

Eve must hear it too. She lifts her head quickly, and stray droplets splatter across your face and onto the mirror, clearing streaks as they trickle downward. She steps between your knees and reaches for you, stroking the crease between your eyebrows until the line smooths. 

“Did you watch Anna wash her hair?” 

You feel her question like hot coals in your stomach, and the frustration burns just beneath your skin. You hate the way she can disarm with you mere words. You don’t like to think about Anna, the stolen hours you spent kindling your feelings like tinder between your hands. She is not here. You don’t want her here. All you want stands before you, asking you about a dead woman that left all her memories behind to be poked and prodded and overanalyzed.

“No,” you tell her honestly, “I only watch you.”

You feel strangely vulnerable as you gaze into her eyes. It’s clear that she is unarmed, and there’s a small knife in the inner pocket of your jacket that you’re certain she doesn’t know about. From this position, you could easily pin her to the floor or choke the air from her lungs or hold her head underwater, and yet you feel weak to the force that pulls you toward her.

You take her face in your hands and kiss her slowly, over and over until she’s soft and pliant in your arms. You drag your lips down to her jaw and begin to kiss the skin there until she presses a hand to your chest. She pushes you back and draws away, her face bright and flushed. 

“Let me dry my hair,” she says, and steps out of your space.

You feel the irritation build in you as she sets you aside for a stained towel. You wonder for a moment if Niko knew this routine, if she wouldn’t let him kiss her until she was finished. The thought makes you burn. You slip off the counter and cross the bathroom in a single stride, backing her against the shower. She flips her hair upward to look at you, startled with her water dripping down her shoulders and back, soaking dark spots onto her tank top.

“Vila-,” she starts and you silence her with your lips, teeth, tongue.

“Oksana,” you whisper into her mouth.

You guide the towel out from between her hands and let it fall to the floor as you kiss her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her throat. She runs her hands across your back, tangles them in your hair as you take her collarbones in your mouth, suck matching bruises on each one. She gasps when you slip your hands beneath her shirt, your fingers cool against her feverish skin. You take her by her hair and turn her around to face the mirror, keep her back pressed flush against you as you slip your hand into her shorts.

She cries out, and you meet her eyes in the mirror. The fog has begun to clear, and your faces are distorted in the wet, blotchy glass. There are four different ways you could kill her without moving at all. You think she’d look beautiful, gasping for air as you close your hands around her neck like a silk scarf, blood bubbling from her neck like a brook in the spring. 

“Oksana,” she whispers, and her voice cracks.

You decide to let her live another Saturday.


End file.
